


Fugitive

by Lasgalendil



Series: Ernestina-verse [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman Begins (2005)
Genre: F/M, This is what happens when you kill off an OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:24:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ernestina-verse. While reading Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas isn't at all necessary to understand this fic, readers of both might recognize several OC's and/or plot lines. Rated M for language, violence, and sexual references.

AN: Ernestina-verse. While reading Ernestina isn't at all necessary to understand this fic, readers of both might recognize several OC's and/or plot lines. Rated T for language, violence, and sexual references.

I am deeply interested in the progress and elevation of journalism, having spent my life in that profession, regarding it as a noble profession and one of unequaled importance for its influence upon the minds and morals of the people. -Joseph Pulitzer

Liam Holden won Gotham's mayoral election by the proverbial landslide. Handsome, charismatic, none-to-young yet none-to-old, he radiated maturity and experience with a youthful, virile vigor. Conservative with money but liberal with ideas, the women and students loved him, and popularity polls projected his rise to a shining star not only in Gotham City's politics but perhaps nationwide as well. But by far the most important part of the vote, at least in Liam's eyes, was the working class.

He won their vote as well.

Liam Holden, despite his riches and fame, was a self-made man. No old, East Coast blood for him. The newspapers called him a 'Man of the People', and the cry caught on quickly and spread until hardly line of print didn't equate that title to his name. In the span of 2 short years running for office, Holden had gone from a well respected if little known CEO to an instant celebrity. It was understanding, then, that Gotham Gazette and Gossip would begin to poke and pry, and begin to give him more coverage than even Thomas Wayne. Gotham's Old Blood were like Britain's Royalty, and never failed to offer print, but the average, every day citizen grew bored of their predictive antics-especially Thomas'. Charity was wonderful, of course, and who could blame Wayne for spending all his time at the hospital for low-income children, providing free public transit, and cleaning up Gotham's parks and schools? But the public simply yawned, and turned their channels to Hollywood and reality television for their entertainment fix in American Idol and other 'follow your dreams' sort of ilk. It was then that the newspaper editors learned that entertainment had become the new opiate of the masses…and flashy new, every day faces could woo their minds and their money even more than those already 'established' ever could. Liam Holden represented Gotham's Nouveau Riche, an everyday man who became something great, something admirable-and more importantly- something enviable. Ridiculously rich, married to a beautiful woman, taking interest in politics, with an adorable young son…he and his family were the perfect tabloid heroes, and began to be stalked relentlessly:

Christopher Holden meets the Obama girls! Get the inside scoop on this political playdate!

Mrs. Holden wears Dior to Charity Benefit Ball

Gotham's Own!

Unlike Thomas Wayne, Liam Holden didn't mind the limelight. He didn't relish it, either, but it was a necessary part of the role he played, and he and his family could play the part well, so play it they did. Pale and prude Martha Wayne would never have looked so good in front of the press, posing and preening, smiling endlessly and waving like a Hollywood starlet, but Mrs. Clarissa Holden put even sex symbol Marilyn Monroe to shame with her curvy hips and wide, salacious smile. No, the Wayne family was simply too uptight. They seemed to accept the press' presence, but never sought to draw attention. Besides, young Bruce was just so sour in comparison to Holden's vivacious, ruddy, and be-freckled darling. Christopher Holden had grown up in front of cameras, and wasn't afraid to smile or wave. 'The Truman Family', as one parenting magazine openly mocked, 'places their young child in the limelight and uses him for press and publicity. One can only speculate what sort of adolescent indulgences Gotham's populace will be forced to put up with when 'Gotham's Own' comes of age.'

But Liam Holden, PhD in Business and Computer Engineering, wanted only the best for his young son. Growing up in poverty, working his way from the streets through college and then to the head of a multi-million dollar technology industry Holden vowed his son would never have to suffer the way he did in anonymity and despair. "The best money can buy," Holden repeatedly said. "My money. Well-earned." Young Christopher was taught and adored by private tutors, music instructors and coaches since the time he could walk. 'Only the best' was Holden's mantra, and one he adhered to with religious tenacity. Those who knew him best learned quickly not to question, and those who did question found themselves quickly estranged.

Yet despite these differences, Liam and Thomas still shared the same social circle-Gotham's elite and obscenely rich-making their meetings both inevitable and often. They spoke over champagne luncheons and philanthropic benefits, concerts and galas, yes; but they rarely conversed. Broad, sweeping toasts to health, happiness, and a better world for tomorrow comprised the greater half of their coexistence.

But one day they did converse. Or rather, Thomas spoke, and Liam actually listened. It was a public engagement, an educational address, and it the closest thing to a real conversation the two men ever shared. Thomas took the stand before thousands of parents, teachers, the necessary mix of minority and underprivileged children and the audacious press because he was the philanthropist whose donation made the smaller teacher/student ratio in the primary school system possible, and Liam was the politician whose job it was to show up at public functions of whatever import to establish the government's 'full support and cooperation', whatever that phrase might actually mean. But it was what the media had come to expect of him, and what the people had come to expect of the media, so he, Clarissa and even young Christopher fulfilled that obligation without complaint save mild ennui.

Wayne's address was abrupt and unexpected. "Private schools aren't good enough," He stated simply in his mild manner. "They're not good enough for my son to attend for thousands of dollars a year when he has access to a free educational system given as a federal right to children in this country. They're not good enough because they are a compromise. An admittance of failure with nothing done to rectify nor apologize, simply an admittance; and complicity with that admittance without action is both irresponsible and cowardice. And I for one will not be called a coward. There is simply no excuse I or any other parent can offer for accepting anything less than the best from the school systems that tax-payers well-earned money is being used to support. Where that system has failed it is the fault of irresponsible parents, and irresponsible school districts that do not accept public accountability. This is unacceptable. This cannot continue. The welfare of America's children and the future of this country's science and industrial sectors has been jeopardized. We must all do what is necessary. We must all do what is right. If money is the issue, then our government needs to supply the funding not from property taxes but an equilateral source. Our citizens must be willing to pay higher premiums for higher quality. If teaching staff is the issue, then we must re-evaluate, and make necessary changes not based on tenure or affirmative action but ability. Whatever the price, whatever the sacrifice, we must all be willing to make it. Because we can no longer be complicit. We can no longer by compliant. We can no longer sit idly by and either ignore or accept this mounting burden and the toil it has placed upon our youth."

Thomas sat to no ovation, and only scattered, scarce applause, in which young Christopher-to his father's good credit-politely participated. This man, this one man, Liam realized, was powerful. His simple speech left a room of Gotham's movers and shakers, shapers of public opinion and policy, utterly dumbfounded. A simple 'thank you' would have sufficed. A 'celebration of greater collaboration' would have been appreciated. But criticism? Open criticism in front of live press, well, that was another matter. It came as little wonder, then, that Wayne had never sought to be a politician. Compromise was the necessity-the sacrifice for the greater good-that kept America's public policy running.

At that time Liam only listened. Didn't comprehend, didn't act, simply heard and began to ponder. Raising taxes certainly wasn't a popular choice, and the re-distribution of wealth across school districts was a matter of federal, not local politics, and one that had the GOP screaming socialism-the equivalent of career suicide. Yes, he heard Thomas Wayne, but as a politician many other voices had his ear as well, and as the months went by time between family, business, and the ever-increasing expectations of the uneasy populace kept Wayne's words and idealism from his fullest attention.

Then something happened in Gotham City. Something that made even the Titans like Liam stop in their tracks and tremble. On the day that Thomas Wayne died, it was as if Atlas had shrugged, and the whole world teetered on the edge of the brink. And if she should fall, what then?

On 'the day that Gotham wept', Liam Holden finally found his reply to Wayne's great words. But he feared, as most did, that whatever should come next for Gotham City would be far too little, and far too late.


	2. Chapter 2

When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.

America came to know it as The Day that Gotham Wept…but that was after, after the newspapers the next morning, after the broadcasts across the television and the sad, sad ceremonies marking Thomas and Martha Wayne's internment. To those in Gotham, who lived through the tragedy, who watched their hero fall, to them, it would always and ever be the night that She was weeping.

…Wept implies past tense; and the sorrow his city felt was never wholly gone.

Gotham City, Palisades

Residence of Mayor Liam Holden

Christopher Holden was only seven the night Thomas Wayne died. Much too young to understand. It was a public function, his nanny whispered quickly, he had to get dressed, and so tousled and sleepy he woke and donned his finest black suit. Even in the dark his tiny fingers could knot the tie, and within five minutes he appeared fully dressed with shoes shining brightly, and with the nanny's weepy approval continued to flit in and out of sleep on the soft white couch in the hall But even at his age he was exceptionally bright and even woken suddenly he was keenly aware of the adults' emotions. Nanny was sad, and father was angry. That much was clear from his belting, baritone voice wafting up from the hall-

"Liam, I don't understand," mother pleaded. "It doesn't make any sense-"

"Sir, this could be your opportunity-" the slick, oily voice of his father's advisor Hamilton Hill crooned lowly. Chris shut his eyes. He never liked that man. He was too…smiley. Yes, that was the word. Too smiley. Always smiling, but the smile never seemed happy, never reached his eyes. Nanny didn't like that man either, he knew, but mother did. He wished the man would just go away.

"Who do you think I am, man?" father thundered. Chris sat up and shivered-he'd never heard father so angry. "Thomas Wayne is dead. Dead, do you hear me? And I WILL NOT be so underhanded to use this uncertainty to my advantage."

The name meant nothing. Dead meant nothing. Aside from a grandmother who'd passed when he was 3, Christopher Holden had never dealt with, never seen, never tasted death. He was a pampered, sleepy, seven-year old boy who dreamt of airplanes and race cars, chocolate cupcakes and ice cream cones. He had no idea that across town, another little boy not much older than he sat awake, dressed up in an uncomfortable suit, wishing he too could be back home and in bed, and that when he woke up again everything would be back to normal. That little boy's name was Bruce Wayne.

They wouldn't meet for another 13 years.

"Sir, the people will expect some sort of public address-" Maybe they wouldn't go, he wondered dreamily, nestling back into the cushions. Maybe he could put his pajamas on and go back to bed. Or maybe he would just sleep in the suit, go back to bed with his shoes still on, wouldn't that be silly…he was sleepy, still so sleepy, and he just didn't want to go…

"Then let the police handle it. Let them do their jobs, and let the killer be caught."

"Sir, every one is expecting you to make an appearance-"

"And regardless of how respectful that appearance my intentions will be misread and self-serving. I am a Man of the People, Hamilton. A man of the people. And tonight I join them." But Christopher knew that tone. Had heard that phrase before. And even though he'd never had intensive grammar, his young mind knew that in this case, I meant we, and we meant him. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and let nanny carry him sleepily to the waiting car.

Tonight is different, Christopher thought to himself. Father drove. He had never seen father drive before, and it was scary and exciting all at once. There were no cameras, either. No bright flashes that made you see funny, floating spots before your eyes. And there were people, lots of people. People were all over the streets, the sidewalks. They were dressed funny-still in their pajamas!-but none of them seemed funny at all to his child's eyes. They were sad. All the people were very sad, and Christopher Holden was too young to know why.

But he was young enough to be curious and polite enough to be courteous. Father often let him speak out of turn, and so he did. "Why are they sad?"

Mother blinked when he spoke. She often did that. But this time was different, and she just kept looking. Looking and looking and looking without answering as though he were invisible. He tried again. "Why are they so sad?"

"Who is sad?" mother finally asked.

"Well, everyone," he thought aloud. "Nanny is sad, the people are sad. I think you're sad, too."

"Don't be silly," she chided, turning his face from the windows. "No one is sad. They're all very tired." Christopher was too young to suspect that his parents might be lying to him. Too young to know why they might, but the night that Thomas Wayne died was the night that Christopher realized that they did, and had.

She said they were tired. They were all just so very tired…but glancing up in the rearview mirror from his mother's overbearing embrace, he caught a glimpse of his father's face.

He was weeping.

Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy

The sad people were tired. The sad people's children were tired, too. And everywhere across the great, green lawn the people were lighting candles and putting flowers down beside the fountain. There was an angel in the fountain, Christopher saw, and he pulled his mother's hand forward to take a closer look. Angels were nice, his nanny said. His grandmother went to be an angel, and she looked down from heaven at him. He thought maybe the angel knew his grandmother. He thought maybe the angel in the fountain would be glad to see him-but he was wrong. The angel was sad. There was a crack in its face under its eyes, and water from the fountain was dripping, dripping sadly down. The angel, like all the people, like nanny, like father, was crying.

Then Christopher cried. He cried into his father's pants leg until it was slick with snot and tears, then his father picked him up and he cried into his shoulder and his throat became sick and sore. He didn't know why, but the angel was sad, and it made him sad, too.

Christopher woke up. He was stiff. Uncomfortable. His neck was craned in his father's shoulder, and it was sore. He stretched, yawned, and nestled closer. It was still dark. The people were all still here. Some were sleeping, some were still lighting candles. Some were singing.

But the soldier by the fountain wasn't singing. The soldier was crying. The soldier was crying with the angel, too. And Christopher was crying for the angel and for the soldier, because no one was here to make them better. No daddies, no mommies, just the people and the singing and the candles and flowers. Lots of flowers. But there were signs, too. And a big picture someone put by the fountain, a picture of a man and two words: Thomas Wayne.

Thomas Wayne. That was the name his father said. Father said Thomas Wayne was dead. Christopher didn't know what dead meant, but he thought he understood. Dead was something very, very sad. So sad that even angels and soldiers and all the people in their pajamas cried.

But the blonde ballerina didn't cry. She smiled. She smiled at the soldier and then walked slowly over all the sleeping and singing people on her tippy-toes and held his hand. Ballerinas must be sad, too, he thought, because the ballerina made the soldier cry even more than the angel did. They sat down on the edge of the fountain and the soldier cried, and cried, and cried into her hair, but the ballerina didn't mind. She kissed the soldier on his forehead, and Christopher didn't think she was sad at all. In fact, he thought she was the most beautiful person in the whole entire world.

He wouldn't meet her either. At least not yet. Not until the very day-the very moment, in fact-that he met Bruce Wayne, and for seven long, anxious years, they would be two of the last four people to have seen him alive.

Christopher didn't go back to sleep. He watched the people sleeping or crying, listened to them talk in hushed, whispered voices. He squinted his eyes at the candle flames until they made funny lines and twinkles and his eyes hurt and he had to stop. But mostly Christopher watched the ballerina as she laughed and smiled. Now the soldier was laughing and smiling too. He thought the ballerina was pretty-so did the soldier.

He began to pout. He didn't want to watch the ballerina and the solider anymore. Didn't want to be here by the fountain and the sad angel and hear all the sad songs.

But the people were all waiting. Waiting for what, he wondered. Maybe they were waiting for that man. Maybe all the people were waiting for Thomas Wayne to come back. They all wanted him to stop being dead.

Christopher Holden was only seven. He was sleepy and uncomfortable, jealous of the soldier who got to hold hands with the pretty ballerina, and he was also getting very, very thirsty. He hoped Thomas Wayne would come back soon.

Thomas Wayne must've come back, he thought, because the people were so happy. They were crying, but they were happy and hugging. "They found him!" They shouted. "They found him!" Mother and father were crying. Father placed him up on his shoulders and spun round and around and around. The people were blowing out candles, laughing and jumping and shouting-they weren't so sad anymore, and Christopher Holden yelled with them all and cheered and chanted "They found him, they found him, they found him!" until his throat hurt with happiness and his voice was gone. Then the solider picked the ballerina up by her tiny waist and spun her around in the fountain and then he kissed her and kissed her and he kept on kissing her and Christopher was so excited he forgot to be jealous or make his yucky face. People cheered and clapped and whooped and the ballerina blushed but she kissed him back and then everyone was kissing and hugging and they started cheering and chanting and crying all over again. The soldier was happy, the ballerina was happy, mother was happy, father was happy and all the people in their funny pajamas were happy. Everyone was happy, so happy, and Christopher was happy too.

Father carried him back to the car. The sun was rising, but he was going to go back to sleep. He was so tired, he was so very happy. Everyone and everything was all right, and that was very good. As he nestled into his mother and drifted off into a deep, contented sleep, Christopher Holden hoped the people wouldn't ever lose their Thomas Wayne again.


	3. Chapter 3

When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.

AN: In Batman Begins, Ra's al Ghul mentions that Gotham banded together after Thomas' death, and I tried to allude to that line when writing about Liam Holden.

Gotham City

13.6 miles-roughly half the distance between Athens and Marathon. It was also the distance between North Street Public High School and the Gotham City (historical) courthouse building, if one was creative with the route. The full course of the Marathon proper stretched some 26.2 miles total, weaving back and forth across the a map of historic Gotham, for those runners who entered out of tourism, academic, or athletic interest, but the full course was also a long way to ask the average citizens of any city, American or not, to get out on a Saturday morning and run.

So they compromised. To fight obesity, to encourage academic leaning, to foster the tourism industry that brought jobs, visitors, immigrants, and enrichment of culture to this grand populace, Mayor Liam Holden, the Gotham Knights, and the GCPSC asked for anyone and everyone who had paid taxes towards, or ever attended a local school to come out and support and/or participate in Gotham's next greatest fundraiser for education: the commencement of the annual Gotham City (Mini-) Marathon.

Chris Holden was 17, three weeks from graduating from North Street public high school, and had grown up from being "Gotham's Own" chubby little celebrity child to a lean, athletic, and confident young man. He opened the ceremony with his aging father, then they both changed into track suits to join the gathered throng of over 12,000 entrants for the two runs. The sun was hot, the wind was cool, and he couldn't remember such a feeling of happiness, hope, and comraderie since that night as a young boy when Thomas Wayne's killer been brought to justice. How silly it seemed now, childish and immature, to have thought that it was Wayne's return that had made the people so happy. And how petty that boyish jealousy over that blonde ballerina, although ten years later he still found blondes-and ballerinas-to be quite attractive…

When the pistol sounded, he took off running like the rest of them. They weren't in it to win it, they were here to show support, to do something as father and son, but you always took off fast at the beginning of a race on a matter of principle. You gave the crowd something to cheer for, to be excited over, and then you slowed your dash to a more reasonable pace and saved your sprint up for the end. And this race was no different than any other, save the crowd was larger than any cross-country meet he'd ever run at, even nationals.

Balloons, confetti, cheerleading squads and the pep bands from every local school district serenaded them along the first several miles. But finally the cheering bystanders thinned, so they slowed to a jog, surrounded now mostly by a sweating pack of athletic women or men around his father's age. He couldn't bring himself to think of them as 'elderly', not yet. His father was 67-older than most men with children his age-but still as young and vigorous as ever.

"College," Liam stated once they'd crossed the eight mile marker. But in 17 years Chris Holden had come to realize that statements, when addressed to him, were always questions. And generally the shorter the statement, the more pressing the question…

"I've given it some thought," Chris sighed. "Mother wants me to go to Princeton."

"A respectable institution." His father conceded.

"I'd get a good education there, I suppose. But I've also been accepted to Georgetown and Brown."

"I see. All three quite acceptable," Liam puffed. "And which are you considering?"

There was no point in delaying the answer any more. It was May, and in three short months his intentions would become perfectly clear to both parents. But not today, Chris decided. Today was a day when his father was proud of all his accomplishments as a politician, a businessman and a philantropist. It just wouldn't do to make him disappointed as father. Not now. Not yet. So Chris sighed. "All of them."

But Liam surprised him."Ah. I see. None of them."

"What?" he yelped.

"None of them. You claim to be deliberating between the three, but the truth is you have no real desire or intention of attending either."

There was a moment of panic, replaced quickly by flabbergasted relief. "Yeah. I just-how did you know?" he asked shyly.

"You've been skirting the issue for months, my boy, which is most unlike you." His father confessed gruffly. "But my question stands: College. Will you be attending?"

"Yeah," Chris nodded. "I'll, I'l go. I just-I don't want to go to those schools, you know? The last 12 years I've gone to state schools, public schools, and those have always been good enough. You've made it a point that they should always be good enough…and so I've been thinking why should my college be any different? GSU's got some great programs-"

"I couldn't agree more. However, college is much more than simply an education," Liam continued as they ran. "It is also a time and a place to build partnerships, establish connections-"

"I want to be a journalist." Chris blurted, so suddenly it surprised even him. "Not a politician, not a businessman, just a journalist. I want to write articles and say stuff on TV. I want to make people listen."

They jogged on. For several hundred paces his father was silent, but then with a slight nod he acquiesced. "I see."

But that tone was enigmatic at best, and Chris didn't know what to think of it. Unlike many of his peers with absent or overbearing parents, he had the utmost respect for his father, and still craved his approval and affection. More than anything. Maybe it was all those years as a young child vying for his father's attention from his monetary and political affairs. Maybe it was because his father's actions spoke where his terse words didn't, and regardless of how many times his father's love and pride had been shown, deep down inside Chris still craved the words. "You're not mad?" he finally asked.

Liam seemed shocked."Mad at who? And whatever for?"

"Me," his son confessed in the mid-morning heat, red-faced from running and the sunburn eating away at his fair skin. "For 'wasting my potential'."

"And do you think you'll be wasting your potential?"

"Well, no-"

"Then why should I be mad?"

"Mother thinks—and all my instructors think-"

"What they do is expect, Christopher. They expect that since you are my son, you'll be like me."

"I want to be like you, dad, just-"

"Just what?"

"Just not…like you. I want to do things for Gotham. Good things. Big things…but I want to do them my way."

Liam nodded. "I see no reason why you shouldn't."

"So you're not…disappointed?"

"Disappointed in what?"

"In me. For choosing GSU. For wanting to be a journalist."

"Good heavens, no, boy! Have you listened to a word I've said?" The Mayor stopped cold. "Christopher, you're my son, and I'll support you in every decision you make so long as you're convinced in your own mind that it is right. You couldn't disappoint me by being a journalist unless you were sloppy, ill-informed, under-researched, and opinionated. Is it your intention in your future career to be any of these things?"

Chris laughed. "My utmost."

"You leave your mother and your instructors to me. You take care of yourself. And remember this: Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it and, above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light."

Chris Holden blinked, awed. "Who said that?"

"I just did," His father cuffed his shoulder gently. "Joseph Pulitzer. Good man. Good journalist. And if you seek to do just that, regardless of income, regardless of fame, regardless of your mother or any one else's opinion, you'll be damn fine man. And that is something I will always be proud of."

Those were some of the last words Liam Holden ever spoke. Just 200 short meters of the finish line, the Mayor collapsed before the sight of all of Gotham and within seconds died in his startled son's arms. For those watching at home, the confused and anxious face of 'Gotham's Own' was their last glimpse at the tragedy: GCN yanked live coverage and cut to an emergency commercial break. It was a sign of their greatest respect for such a great man not to show Gotham's most shocking and tragic news since the murder of Thomas Wayne. The studio producers watched helpless as EMT's responded, looked on proudly as one of their own reporters-young and promising Mike Engel-pulled the adolescent away from the scene and shouted to all reporters to turn their cameras off, to take the mikes away when more than a hundred were vying for that crucial comment.

Engel hadn't been thinking of his career when he responded, just the needs of that young man. But that concern got him noticed, and getting noticed got him promoted. What had undoubtedly been the worst moment of his life had also been his finest, and Mike Engel-like Liam Holden-could always be proud of that.

Later that night, Gotham County Coroner Nora Fields confirmed for the city what responding EMT's Jennifer Hansen and Ben Jacobi had already suspected while administering CPR: acute myocardial infarction. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Liam Holden, Gotham's 'Man of the People', rising from rags to riches and celebrity, Gotham's most trusted politician, philantropist, father, husband, and friend left the city's streets as a young man to become something more, only to die on them 48 years later.

…Perhaps-as many thought-it was only fitting.

Holden's funeral was a state ceremony, with all the pomp and circumstance necessary to honor his achievements. But he wasn't buried in South Side Cemetery as was custom. His son Christopher made an unusual request, one that Liam would have heartily approved: his remains were interred on GSPSC property so that in his death-like his life-he might continue to show support for the education and enrichment of not only his own child, but all of Gotham's children.

That conversation, started by Thomas Wayne so long ago, had finally been completed. But good conversations-like ideas-are never fully finished. They are passed down through time, handed down generation to generation, and always the truly good and great men must speak their part. There was another Holden, another Wayne, and the task would fall to them to uphold their father's names.

Christopher Holden. Bruce Wayne. Two men, two Gothamites, two legacies to carry on.

One would become a hero and a legend, a Good Man, an inspiration to the masses for generations to come. The other lurked in the shadows cast by camera-light, and by history was quickly forgotten. But Bats have been—and remain—creatures of the darkness. Only those with no sins to hide can ever live fully in the there are lines that good men will not and cannot cross without passing into the realm of those Great...or Terrible.


End file.
